


The Primary Reason Tony Stark Would Throw Down With an Anti-Vaxxer in the Street

by caraminha



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Author Tries Her Best Despite This, Author is not a doctor, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Seizures, Sick Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting, Whump, and its very very obvious, tetanus, wow i bet that tag isn't used often
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 00:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15674718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caraminha/pseuds/caraminha
Summary: Prompt from my Tumblr: Have you heard of tetanus? I’m studying it for school and it’s got lots of angst potential - it causes severe, seizure like muscle spasms which can break the patient’s bones, but they’re conscious and fully aware of what’s happening. It also causes fever and lockjaw, and difficulty breathing. I’d love to see an angst fic where Peter has bad tetanus and Tony and co are looking after him whilst his symptoms get worse and worse.





	The Primary Reason Tony Stark Would Throw Down With an Anti-Vaxxer in the Street

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!! Long time no see! How are you doing?
> 
> Bored of waiting for some activity from me? That's fair. And how's the wife?
> 
> KIDDING! But I am sorry for not being as active as sOME WRITERS....COUGH.....LOSINGMYMINDTONIGHT.....but I hope this makes up for it! It's way, WAY longer than I expected and you basically need to pretend that everything medical i say is actually believable. Because otherwise, like... it just isnt....
> 
> anyways i love u all! Enjoy!

  
Driving long distances wasn’t really Tony’s thing. 

  
Being a man of ample wealth – not to mention a distinct lack of affinity with ‘scenic routes’ comprised entirely of cornfields – made it a pretty basic principal: when a private jet is an option, you don’t say no. 

  
That, and the fact that he’s pretty sure he has some nice internalised trauma in the back somewhere from his parents dying in a car, or something. Shut up. Whatever. Road trips weren’t his thing. 

  
Go figure. 

  
So to say he was surprised to find himself openly offering to cart one Peter Parker to _California_ and back? That would be an understatement. 

  
45 hours of driving. Both ways. 90 hours. 

  
Oh, what the hell. Was he really that surprised? He loves the kid. 

  
Peter wasn’t going to college for another couple years, but the kid could’ve been there a long time ago. It was only natural that he was interested in the top universities the country had to offer; Stanford and Berkeley being right up there, and easily within his academic sights. 

  
Tony had somehow managed to get May’s pride complex to share a room with his desire to sponsor Peter a full ride. She’d heard him out, and the whole time he was speaking, he could see the conflict on her face. 

  
She didn’t want charity. Even the implication of it made her squirm. 

  
But she loved Peter, and she wanted him to achieve his full potential. Though her and Ben had accepted the fact a long time ago, it was still awful that they had to mortgage what felt like everything, from the roof over their head to the air in their lungs, to nurture Peter’s gifts. 

  
And here was Tony, offering him everything he deserved and more. It wouldn’t make even a dent in Tony’s bank balance, and it was clear he was offering out of love and care for her nephew, and nothing else. No ulterior motive, no sleazy need to sedate a guilty conscience. 

  
It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen Peter trying to hide the Stanford prospectus under his hamper, the Yale webpage that was hastily closed when she walked past. 

  
So she said yes. 

  
And Peter was really grateful, and _really_ happy. 

  
They’d been in the lab, working on something or other – web fluid and shooters, maybe – and Peter had been talking about California. Stanford, specifically. And how May was stressing about booking time off for an open day. 

  
“I could take you.” 

  
“Aw, don’t worry about it Mr Stark, it’s cool! She’ll just have to do some make-up graveyard shifts, and I was gonna help out by—” 

  
“FRI, compare the open day dates. Am I free?” 

  
“You and Ms Potts are in Stockholm between the 5th July and 17 th August. The visitor centre isn’t open outside of those dates.” 

  
“So no dice?” 

  
“No dice, Boss.” 

  
Though Peter had politely rejected the idea, Tony could’ve sworn his face fell just a little. He cleared his throat and threw a grape into his mouth, leaning back in his chair and considering. 

  
After a minute or so of the kid side-eyeing him from his bubbling formula, he threw a grape at Peter’s head to get his attention, then stared off into space innocently, pretending he hadn’t thrown it. 

  
“They know me at Stanford. I’ve got sway. _And_ Berkeley, I think.” He shrugged, pointing at the ceiling. “Hit me with it, FRIDAY.” 

  
“You’ve got honorary alumni status at both, Boss.” 

  
Tony grinned at Peter like all his problems were solved. “Really! _Aces.”_

  
Peter narrowed his eyes. “Mr Stark, I… you know how thankful I am to you for funding me this scholarship, and all, and I am! Really. It’s… it means so much to me. And May. But I can’t just ask you to fly me out there on top of everything else—” 

  
“Who said anything about flying? Are you putting words in my mouth again, Parker?” 

  
“Hey! I’ve never put—” 

  
“Don’t be a pain in the neck! We could make it a fun little road trip - take the Audi. I know it’s your favourite _._ Stop at a hotel, do some sightseeing. You’ve never been to San Francisco, you can be a disgusting tourist!” Peter crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, not even trying to conceal his smile. “C’mon, it’ll be fun! It’d be a week, tops. And I can make up for being in Sweden for most of your summer.” 

  
Peter smiled at him softly. “ _Usually_ it’s the kid begging the adult to let them do something crazy.” 

  
“Hey, whoa there. Foolish, perhaps. Eccentric, possibly. But crazy? You’re toeing the line, there, kid.” He stood and moved to Peter’s workstation, flopping into his chair and pouting dramatically. “Come oooon. You never do anything fun with me.” 

  
Peter laughed. “Mr _Stark._ ” 

  
Tony stuck his bottom lip out further and stirred the web fluid concoction sadly. “Never wants to spend time with me.” He muttered. “Always with Ned. Never with Mr Stark.” He sighed, slumping his shoulders. 

  
“Alright!” Peter laughed. “Fine! We can go.” 

  
They both knew he’d been in from the second Tony had suggested it. 

* * *

  
_whoa dude im so jealous!!!! Facetime me when youre at the hotel and tell me about it!!_

  
__

  
Tony smirks to himself as he brings his eyes back to the road. That was Ned’s reply to Peter’s earlier text of, ‘ _best trip ever!!!!’,_ and he couldn’t help but feel just a little bit smug about it. 

  
He’s feeling more sad than smug, though. He and Peter’d had a really fun time, and he’s a little disappointed it’s over so soon. They’d had pretty much unprecedented tours of Berkeley and Stanford, which Peter had _loved_ (though he didn’t envy Peter of the future, having to pick one of all these colleges that’d have him at the drop of a hat). 

  
Then they’d had a couple days just here and there, sightseeing and relaxing and eating good food, staying in a nice hotel in San Francisco that made Peter bounce on the balls of his feet in excitement at the luxury. Tony received a selfie off him in his bath tub, up to the eyeballs in bubbles and a champagne flute of orange juice in his hand. 

  
A squirrel had tried to basically mug Peter of his pretzels in Golden Gate Park. Tony couldn’t with 100% certainty guarantee that May hadn’t been immediately sent a perfectly timed photo of the attack, or that she wasn’t framing multiple copies at that very moment. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. 

  
Chuckling under his breath at the memory, he looks over at the kid, who’s fast asleep beside him. His smile turns at the corners into a grimace when he sees the position Peter’s in – slumped forward, his neck at a weird angle. 

  
Peter had mentioned yesterday that his neck and jaw had been a bit stiff and sore. Tony had joked that he was probably sleeping on the ceiling _just because he could_ , and that was why his neck was playing up. Peter had laughed, said something about taking a hit on patrol. From then on, Tony couldn’t help but notice every time Peter rubbed his mouth or winced slightly at a movement, and had resolved to take the suit in for upgrades; starting with more head and neck support. 

  
It couldn’t have been bothering him too much, if the vigour with which he took up the role of slack-jawed tourist was anything to go by. 

  
Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about _why_ the kid’s healing factor wasn’t fixing up the injury – sleep like _that_ and it was no wonder his neck was all strained. He looks like some kind of creepy contortionist, head flopped forward and twisted towards the window. He’s only restrained by the seatbelt – otherwise he’d be faceplanting the dash for sure. 

  
Boy, was he out of it. Had he maybe overdone it with the touristy things? 

  
_Nah._

  
Kid loved it. 

  
“Someone gets you in one spot for longer than 30 seconds _one time_ and you pull a Sleeping Beauty.” He softly grouses. Peter’s knowledge of good health habits – namely that _you actually have to sleep every once in a blue moon_ – is shockingly poor for a kid genius. He focuses back on the road for a split second before his head whips back. “I only called you Beauty to get the reference right. It’s not a compliment. Don’t get cocky.” 

  
Peter doesn’t stir. Tony sighs, leaning over to push him back against the seat with one hand against his chest. Once he’s there and the seatbelt is more lax, he tries to ease his head back a little, withdrawing suddenly, fingers curling at the surprise heat he finds on Peter’s brow. 

  
He coughs under his breath, confusion spreading under his features. He corrects the car’s course an inch to the left, thankful they’re on a straight, almost empty highway, and presses his entire hand to Peter’s forehead. 

  
“ _El scorchio_. Peter? Hey, Parker, rise and shine.” He shakes Peter’s shoulder whilst staring at the road, awkwardness now for some reason filling up inside him. 

  
Peter grunts. “I’m up, I’m up.” He exhales long and slow out of his nose and rubs his eyes and neck, hissing at the latter like Tony had expected him to. 

  
He squeezes one eye shut and twists his features to the left as he pointlessly tries to inspect his neck. He must agitate his sore jaw doing this, because he hisses again. Tony stares ahead at the road. 

  
“Aw man. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Sorry, Mr Stark.” He says. “Are we stopping or didja just miss me?” He taunts. 

  
Tony plays with words in his mouth. Peter _sounds_ okay, has enough in him to make fun… 

  
“I thought you’d do a number on your neck if I let you sleep like that any longer. I’m sure your aunt would have a thing or two to say about _that_. You alright?” 

  
“Yeah?” 

  
“Your neck?” 

  
“Not too bad.” 

  
_Sure. And since we’re playing make-believe, I’m late for my date with the Tooth Fairy, so if you’ll excuse me…_

  
Peter pulls his hoodie off. He balls it up and hugs it to him, his socked feet up on the seat. Tony makes a cursory glance at him, and catches his eye. He smiles. Peter smiles back – his eyes are tired. “We’ll stop in about half an hour. You can go back to sleep if you want, I’m fine with the radio.” 

  
Peter turns on the radio. “Nah. I’ve left you on your own – which, by the way, Ms Potts told me _never to do_ – for like, half an hour already—” 

  
“Two hours.” 

  
“—and I know y— _two_ _hours_?” 

  
Tony snorts and nods. “Aaa _yup_. Did an excellent corpse impression.” 

  
“Mr _Stark!_ ” Peter whines, cracking his window open and sticking his fingers out. “You shoulda woke me up!” 

  
“Uh, think you’ll find I _did.”_

  
_“Sooner!”_

  
“Well, I’m nothing if not a generous man.” Peter doesn’t rebut the statement, and Tony promptly files it away under _Jokes That Fall Flat Because The Kid Still Thinks I’m a Good Person._ “And I thought I’d better leave you to your _fever-_ “ he shoots him a wilting look, “and all. But yeah, you know, it’s chill. It’s cool. Well, you’re not chill or cool. Because of the fever. Hey, look at that! I made a funny.” 

  
Peter is glaring at him, but with no heat behind it. “I get warm when I sleep, and I had this on.” He gestures to the hoodie. Tony sighs. 

  
“If you say so, kiddo.” 

  
“Really, Mr Stark, I feel fine.”  
  
Tony relents. “You wanna put one of your playlists on?” 

  
Peter grins. 

* * *

  
They stop for food. Peter gets a grilled cheese and strawberry milkshake. Tony watches him with reserved concern whenever he’s not looking.  
  
The kid’s still bubbly and happy and warm - still _warm_ warm, too. Tony sneakily checked by messing up Peter’s hair like he hates him doing – but he is a little quieter. 

  
He definitely doesn’t inhale his food like he normally does, or order seconds like he normally does, and when Tony orders _himself_ seconds, he excuses himself to the bathroom. 

  
Tony eats the onion rings first in the couple minutes he’s gone. He has his  
suspicions that the strong smell wasn’t agreeing with the kid.

  
And, as always, his jaw’s bothering him. Neck, too. 

  
Watching him eat with exaggerated care and obvious pain is driving Tony’s blood pressure through the damn roof. 

  
They’re back on the road now, have been for about 4 hours. 

  
Tony listens to the classical station on low volume, the local news on medium, the rock station on almost mute. He ends up shutting it all off. 

  
He doesn’t plan on stopping till 2 or 3am; however long it takes to get to their hotel checkpoint. It just makes sense to drive till late, when it’s quiet, then sleep in to miss the early morning traffic, have a late breakfast and do the same again. 

  
He’ll stop if Peter asks, but otherwise, he’s good. 

  
The quiet – Peter’s obviously out cold once again – is actually nice. It’s not heavy and oppressive, like he can find quiet to be. It’s just steady. He’s thinking about things without feeling overwhelmed. He can just drive and think and think and drive. 

  
And keep an eye on the kid. 

  
He shifts in his sleep, head now pillowed against the window with Tony’s jacket, and hoodie still bunched up in his arms, hugged to his waist. 

  
It’s only 9pm right now, and he’s wondering whether to push it till 10:30 or maybe 11. Six hours is a long time to drive non-stop, but he’s not really hungry from his huge lunch, and he doesn’t need the bathroom. 

  
It all depends on Peter. If he stays asleep, he guesses he could just keep driving. 

  
He’s only a couple minutes into that resolution when Peter does wake. 

  
“Evening.” He says softly. “How d’you feel?” 

  
Peter’s eyes flutter shut again and he offers only a small smile. “Okay.” He doesn’t move. Tony’s too smart to know it’s not because the position is too comfortable to relinquish. 

  
He knows it’s because any movement will jar and pain him. 

  
He’d offer him painkillers, but the kid’s already refused them twice today. God, what can he do? Maybe he should take him on a spa day or something.  
  
“How are you?” 

  
“I’m fine, Pete. I wasn’t gonna stop for a little while, but we can if you need to.” 

  
Peter flaps a hand at him. “I’m good. Maybe in, like, an hour?” 

  
Tony nods. “Sure thing. Hey, I was thinking. D’you think you’ve got a bad case of whiplash or something? Because you’re flipping around Queens all day and I haven’t put all that much reinforcement in the neck of the suit.” 

  
Peter eyes him and what looks like relief floods his features. “I think you’re right.” 

  
“Yeah? Gimme the suit when we’re back. I’ll work on that for you.” 

  
“Can I help?” 

  
“Of _course._ You think I’m gonna let you let me do all the work for you?” 

  
Peter breathes out a laugh that turns into a more forced exhale when he moves to sit up straight. He leans forward tentatively, head in his hands. Tony’s jacket slips down from the window into his lap and he digs a hand into it. 

  
Tony balks. He can’t reach for him, the road around them is busy. “Hey, hey, hey. Easy. What’s wrong, buddy?” 

  
“M’okay. Just got sorta dizzy.” Peter says, not moving from his position. “I thought—it’s okay.” 

  
“You thought what?” Tony pulls up into gravel of the shoulder as gently as possible. He undoes both his and Peter’s seatbelts. 

  
He hesitates over what to do now he has his hands free and settles on rubbing a hand up and down Peter’s lower back. “Stay like that if it helps, Peter.” 

  
“Thought I might pass out.” 

  
Tony feels Peter’s cheek with the back of his hand. It’s clammy. 

  
“Sorry, Mr Stark. I’m really sorry.” 

  
“Hey. It’s okay.” He murmurs. “Just a headache. Not your fault.” 

  
“Think I was asleep for too long?” Tony doesn’t fail to notice that Peter’s voice is a little bit croaky. “In one position.” 

  
Tony’s insides twist. That isn’t right. 

  
“It’s okay. Just breathe.” 

  
Peter breathes. Tony looks up the nearest hotel, motel, truck stop, _anything,_ and finds a motel a couple miles down the road. Peter tries to argue against it, so Tony just lies and says he’s tired too. 

  
The guy at the desk is nice. He’s a huge, broad guy, with an impressive dark beard that Tony compliments the second he enters the reception. 

  
He apologises profusely that they only have one room free, and it’s a king. Tony insists it’s fine. He wouldn’t care if it were a shack that was $1,000,000/h: as long as it was clean and Peter got to lie down, he couldn’t care less. 

  
Peter, poor kid, must have held a similar kind of ethics for the situation, since he only argued with Tony for 5 minutes about who got the bed (“ _But Mr Stark, you’re driving. And paying. You’re already stopping for me. I like sleeping on couches.” “Not a chance in absolute hell, kid. Here’s your pyjamas.”)_ before he fell into it face first and dead to the world. 

  
The motel wasn’t bad. It wasn’t anything like the place Tony had originally booked for tonight, but it wasn’t grimy or falling apart at the seams either. 

  
It has clean sheets, a hot shower, a decent coffee machine, and a separate light for the kitchenette that means Tony can keep the room dim but still get some work done at the table. 

  
He sits back and stares at the papers. This wasn’t how he’d expected to spend his evening. To be fair to Pepper – and he rarely was – she’d be ecstatic that he was finally getting down to some business. 

  
But, if he was _totally_ honest, he’d been looking forward to a repeat of the journey here: he and Peter’d had a fun time. Obviously, it wasn’t Peter’s fault. The kid probably already felt guilty for the fact that he’d altered their plans – even if he couldn’t help it. 

  
He resolves to make _sure_ Peter knew he wasn’t mad at him when he was feeling better. He hopes that’d be tomorrow morning, what with Peter’s healing factor. He had to admit that although they didn’t spend every waking moment together, he’d never seen Peter sick. It made him more than a little uncomfortable. 

  
_Oh well._ He picks up his pen and sighs. _No time like the present._

  
__

* * *

  
He eventually goes to the couch and gets a few hours shuteye. He sleeps till 3:45am, which isn’t too bad, all things considered. It’s about the limit of what he can get right now, what with the nightmares and the insomnia. 

  
And a distinct lack of Pepper by his side. 

  
Heaving himself up, he flips on the small lamp by the couch. Peter’s still out of it, but his face has less lines than before. 

  
Tony smiles. The kid’s face has definitely regained more colour. 

  
He picks up discarded items of clothing as he heads for the coffeemaker, folding them and placing them back on top of Peter’s bag. As he drops them down, he notices the kid’s phone screen light up at him. It’s on 12%, and Tony’s has a pet peeve for low batteries. He plugs it in on the nightstand and flips it onto silent. 

  
Sitting back at the table, he mulls over the situation. 

  
For starters, he’s never seen Peter willingly sleep so much. He must be feeling really crappy to have slept for… what? It’s gotta be _well_ over 12 hours now. 

  
For what Tony liked to call “seconders” (to piss Rhodey off), he had to admit to his paranoid, panicking brain that “willingly” was the operative word when he’d said he’d never seen Peter sleep that much. He _had_ seen Peter sleep that much. 

  
It just... wasn’t exactly… with his consent? 

  
The handful of times he’d been injured as Spider-Man, his healing factor had forced him to sort of… hibernate so it could focus on repairing his body. Tony hoped to god that it was what was happening here. 

  
For nexters, although the seconders answered one question, it raised another: if it _was_ his enhanced healing, why wasn’t it patching up his neck? 

  
He would’ve gone for a home run with _for lasters_ , but he’d been sitting and staring at the kid for so long, and the kid had been dead still the entire time. Which, for Peter Parker, sleeptalker extraordinaire, was weird. _Weird._

  
Peter was an active sleeper, to say the least. He was almost as hyper in sleep as he was awake (which embarrassed him to no end). He was always talking, laughing – which was _super_ creepy, can he just say for the record – tossing and turning and ending up at the other end of the bed, or even slipping off the couch if there wasn’t someone there to nudge him back on. Kid could sleep through a hurricane if it weren’t for his Spidey sense. 

  
But now… now Peter’s in the centre of the bed, the _hogger_ , comforter wrapped tight around his neck, and silent. When Tony comes closer, he sees that the kid’s sweating. 

  
He groans under his breath. 

  
“Pete,” he says, only half-hoping he’d wake until he feels the same warmth amidst Peter’s curls. “Peter?” 

  
Peter stirs lethargically. He goes to turn his head towards Tony, eyes closed, but they squint further shut in pain when his neck protests. “Hey, time s’it?” 

  
“Late.” Tony answers honestly, softly. 

  
He feels awkward standing by the kid’s bedside, but now he’s up close, he’s bordering dangerously on concern for Peter’s wax-candle paleness and body temperature. “You alright?” 

  
Peter is a terrible liar - _especially_ when bleary from sleep. Tony knows this before he even speaks, from the convulsive swallow and the soft, surprised gasp of pain that follows it. 

  
“Yeah, yeah, man, I’m good. We leaving? I can just—” he swallows again and _does this kid really think I’m not seeing this?_ and rubs at his neck, “—can just grab a quick shower and I’m good.” 

  
He begins coordinating his limbs into movement. Tony holds him down by his shoulder, and Peter squeaks a protesting _hey!_

  
“We’re not going anywhere. You’re sick.” 

  
“Am not!” Peter croaks, eyes already starting to slip shut again. “I jus’ woke up. Gimme a chance.” 

  
“Uh- _huh_.” He turns towards the kitchen and fills a glass of water, making sure it’s cool but not ice-cold. 

  
Peter watches him with an adorable suspicion that Tony pretends not to notice, and one eye cracked open. 

  
“Drink.” 

  
“Mr Stark—” 

  
“Pete.” He cuts in, although gently. “I’m a hair’s width from asking Hagrid at reception for a thermometer.” Peter smiles slightly at the reference. He accepts the glass. “Good call, kiddo.” 

  
Whilst he drinks, Tony turns away again and heads to the couch, where he flips open his duffel and unzips the back pocket. 

  
He rummages around, humming an _ah-ha!_ as he pulls out some painkillers and shakes the pot by his ear. He grimaces when he hears what could only be a couple pills rattling around inside. 

  
That wouldn’t be enough for him.  
  
He goes back to Peter, who's struggling back the water. “Hey, kid.” He takes the glass off him and sets it aside. Peter looks relieved. “I don’t have enough meds for a superkid right now. D’you want me to run to the store,” _which is probably 20 miles away,_ “and grab some? And you’ve got to be honest with me here. Seriously. I know your neck’s bothering you.” 

  
“Ah, no, it’s fine, Mr Stark, honestly! I’m fine. Store’s probably like thirty miles away anyway. I’ve had worse. Just needs sleeping off.” Peter rushes to reassure, his voice thin and wispy.  
  
Tony hesitates. “Okay.” He murmurs. “You know, you look like shit, Parker.” 

  
“That’s what all the girls say.” 

  
Tony smiles. “I don’t quite believe that, somehow.” 

  
Peter smiles back. “We’re not all womanizers like you, Mr Stark.” 

  
“How very dare you. I’ll tell Miss Potts that when I see her, shall I?” 

  
Peter smirks. Long gone were the days when he was nervous of Pepper, and anxious to please - the days when Tony’s joking threats like that were taken as gospel. 

  
He inhales deeply, as though about to yawn, and Tony takes that as his cue to move away back to his makeshift office, when Peter yelps in shock. He shifts back around to see the kid with his mouth hanging half open, hands probing his jaw desperately.  
  
He’d have made a joke about the wind changing if he had a little less tact.  
  
“Pete?” He comes to sit on the bed, taking his hands calmly and moving them away. Peter barely allows his ministrations, his groan coming out more guttural and unsettling since his mouth was open. He rolls onto his back so Tony can see better. He winces when Tony’s fingers brush against his face. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m just taking a quick look. No surprises.”  
  
Tony takes his chin in his right hand as carefully as he can. Peter’s mouth is almost shut, his teeth bared like they usually would be mid-yawn. They couldn’t have been more than an inch apart, his mouth more a rectangle than an _O._

  
He was gasping at the back of his throat, eyes roaming over Tony in question. “It’s okay, easy. You’ve probably just clenched it too hard in your sleep and it’s locked. It’s happened to me before.” Peter tries to nod in Tony’s hold. 

  
Tony takes his hot face more firmly in his hands and runs his thumbs in circles along the highest point of his jaw bone, the bases of his palms just above the wrist cushioning his chin. “Stop me if this hurts too much, alright?” 

  
Peter makes a _nuh-uh_ sound in response. Tony takes it as reassurance that what he’s doing is actually helping. 

  
“Easy.” He says again and again, his brow furrowed and face calculating as he searches Peter’s face for any signs of new pain or discomfort. “I know it hurts, but it’s helping. Promise. I’m a doctor.” He jokes. Peter’s eyes shine for a moment, then dull back into his _This Hurts But I’m Not One to Complain_ calibre of Brave Face. 

  
Slowly, _slowly_ , the pain implicit in the kid’s features recedes, and his jaw eases back to being closed. Tony smoothes over the grooves of his bone structure in inspection. He isn’t sure whether it was fully better or not. 

  
“You wanna try opening?” 

  
Peter twitches it from side to side like he’s swishing mouthwash. 

  
“Yeah,” he tries, in a croak. “That’s a lot better. Thanks, Mr Stark. Really. Thanks.” 

  
Tony smiles softly. He hopes that the disquiet in his head wasn’t showing on his face. _What the hell is_ wrong _with this kid?_

  
“Jeez, that was actually kind of embarrassing.” Peter says slowly, working his jaw out with each word. He rubs his cheek, which was blushing beneath his touch. “That’s some pretty good ammo to use against me, me sitting here like a fish.”  
  
“Like a fish?” Tony chuckles. 

  
“Yeah, like a—” Peter makes a stupid face, puffing his cheeks and lazily circling his lips. “—a—a fish.” 

  
His eyes narrow in affection. “Sure.” He huffs a quick laugh out of his nose. 

  
Peter was covering for how the pain he was feeling right now – he knows that – and Tony doesn’t want to break the light atmosphere between them by pointing it out. 

  
“You okay?” 

  
“Yeah. I mean, that hurt, but....” 

  
“I bet.” 

  
“It’s feeling better now though.” 

  
_‘Better’ doesn’t mean ‘It doesn’t hurt at all’._ “Anything else hurt?” __

  
Peter doesn’t reply. His forced swallow answers for him. Face a picture of exasperation, Tony’s eyes widen as his eyebrows practically hit his hairline, head cocking to the side in an entirely too paternal show of anticipation of _the truth._

  
Peter reads his expression. He sighs. “It’s not so bad. I’ve had worse.” 

  
Tony purses his lips, eyes blinking slowly and chin retracting into his neck as he stares into space. Sarcasm laces his every movement. _Say that one more time, and I swear to god…_

  
__

  
“Hilarious.” 

  
“Huh?” 

  
“That you think that ‘ _I’ve had worse’_ somehow placates me. At all. Ha ha. You’re actually very amusing, Peter, has anyone ever told you that?” 

  
Peter’s eyes slide shut, deflating. “I’m only telling you the truth. Truth hurts sometimes.” His voice held the quality of someone trying not to fall asleep in a second flat. When he speaks again, he’s somehow mustered a sombre tone that provokes Tony into almost believing him. “Honestly, I’m okay. Just my neck and my throat hurt. And my jaw. And just a little headache. But, it’s like—localised? So it’s okay. I took a hard hit round there on patrol, the other night. And the whiplash thing that you said. Think that. It’s not that bad. Really, s’all good.” 

  
“Sure. And what about the fever?” 

  
“I run hot, Mr Stark.” 

  
“Uh, I’m pretty sure you’ve got the flu, kiddo.” 

  
He almost hits the roof in surprise when that doesn’t make Peter immediately rise up in debate. “Maybe. Be gone tomorrow. Sorry.” 

  
“No sorries. Only getting betters.” Tony places a cool hand over Peter’s jaw again, presses lightly. 

  
“M’okay.” 

  
With a sigh, he nods slowly. It’s clear Peter has a high tolerance for pain, and a low tolerance for being worried about. If the kid said he was okay, he had to believe him and leave him, he guessed. 

  
He makes Peter finish the water, even though it seems to really hurt his throat, and refills it. He puts it within arms reach and opens all the windows. 

  
Then he gets one of the washcloths from the bathroom and soaks it through. He puts it on Peter’s forehead and leaves it there. “You’ll tell me if it gets worse.” 

  
“’f course, M’st’r Stark.” Peter curls back onto his side, washcloth sliding down so it’s propped up between his bangs and the quickly soaking pillow. Tony counts it as a win if it’s still touching his skin. 

  
“Okay, kid.” He pats Peter’s leg – who he was sure had already passed right out - and goes back to his sketchpads and plans. 

  
He’s shifted some papers aside and is just opening his laptop to try Googling the kid’s symptoms for some semblance of understanding – of what the hell might be going on, of how to _help_ the kid ( _of why his super healing hadn’t kicked in to fix a simple knock to the larynx, and then he gets the flu, for god’s sake, it’s stressing me out)_ when a quiet but indignant, croaking question rises up from the bed. 

  
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping? It’s _late._ ” 

  
Tony snorts. “Too many questions from an inquisitive Spiderling for one day. Go to sleep.” 

  
“I asked _one_ question.” Peter mumbles into his pillow. 

  
Tony tastes the _I’m fine_ on his tongue and almost laughs at his hypocrisy. He sighs, shutting his laptop. “Finding the concept of sleep a little difficult to grasp at present, if you must know.” 

  
“Have you tried list’ning to… like… rain?” 

  
Tony smirks at the  >90% unconscious teen on the bed. “I haven’t.” 

  
He watches the kid, who, with his eyes closed, runs his fingers along the charger till they meet his phone, fumbles a couple times to unlock it, and swipes to a white noise app. “S’...good. Helps me sleep, y’know?” 

  
Heavy rain and the gush of ocean surf fill the room. Peter tucks his phone beneath his pillow, giving the sound a round, enclosed property that makes it all the more calming. 

  
_It helps him block everything else out._

  
_Everything’s dialled to 11._

  
“Y’should sleep, you know, Mis’r Stark.” 

  
“Okay, Pete. Fine. I’m gonna.” 

  
He mostly lies down on the couch to appease the kid. 

  
He mostly falls _asleep_ because of the rainy lull that envelopes the room and the echo of _it’s not that bad_ that’s running around his head. 

  
He wakes to Peter calling his name. 

  
“Mr Stark? I— _ah—”_ A gasp. 

  
He pauses for a split second, checking to make sure he didn’t imagine it, then sits bolt upright. “Peter?” 

  
“Mr Stark,” he sounds breathless. Tony reaches for the lamp. 

  
Illumination billows into the room like smoke and he feels his pupils constrict. His eyes go straight to the kid sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. “ _Peter?”_

  
Well, whaddya know? _It_ is _that bad._

  
He crouches before him and wraps a hand around a trembling bicep. That arm is cradling his stomach. 

  
The other is held awkwardly aloft – it’s bent so that his elbow is pointing to the ceiling. His face is pressed into the crook of it, and his hand pushes into his neck like he’s desperately trying to alleviate pressure, clawing at it like he’s in agony. 

  
His face is scrunched up, and he’s breathing harsh and heavy. 

  
Tony pushes a hand up onto his cheek. “Hey. Talk to me.” 

  
Peter just gasps. 

  
“Pete? You’re scaring me here, kiddo.” 

  
“I can’t… move. I can’t move.” Is forced out through ground teeth. 

  
Tony’s stomach pits. _What is this?_

  
__

  
Some kind of parasite? Is he going through _paralysis?_

  
__

  
_Oh, god. He hoped not._

  
__

  
He schools his features and grabs _Initiative_ firmly by the throat. 

  
“Okay. Alright, Peter, where does it hurt?” 

  
Peter chokes on his breath. _“Everywhere_.” 

  
Tony nods, shifts the leg that held his weight. “Yeah, I figured. Okay, bud, I’m going to move you real slow, okay? I need you lying down, because I’m very conscious of you passing out right about now. I’ll do the work, okay? Don’t fight me.” 

  
“Yeah.” 

  
It was like untangling a fierce knot. Tony knew he couldn’t help it. Peter’s super-strength fights against every small touch, and he’s very close to crying - and not stopping. Tony could sense it in his breathing, in his face, in his jarred swallowing. He could literally sense it like a balmy air threatening rain. It was the worst feeling. 

  
He starts by straightening one of his legs, wanting to put off moving his arms for as long as possible. Now with room in front of him, Peter slowly leans forward to be against Tony. Tony swallows hard and rubs his back. 

  
_Do I move him or not? God,_ _do I_ move him or not?! 

  
Peter decides for him. 

  
“I can stand.” He grinds out. Tony doesn’t argue with him. His hands hover over his back as he heaves himself up and sits back on the bed. 

  
Once he’s down, and his arms are no longer raised, Tony crouches by his head. He squints at him till they have eye contact. “This doesn’t look good, Pete.” 

  
Peter gives him the saddest of small smiles. Tears are pricking at his tear ducts, and the smile drops. He looks like a little kid. “What’s happening to me?” __

  
“I really don’t know. But we’ll figure it out.” 

  
Up close, Peter smells of sweat and the same floral detergent that their entire apartment smells like. Tony thinks of May, and what she’d do. 

  
Peter’s trembling. He’s paler than a sheet and his voice is little more than a crackle. He’s burning up, and Tony knows that everything above his shoulders is pure agony. 

  
Something flashes through his mind, a possible diagnosis that rings a bell when the words _lockjaw_ and _stiff neck_ and _fever_ go together, but he shakes his head. Peter’s been vaccinated. May _is_ not, _was_ not, never was and never will be, an anti-vaxxer. He knows that for certain. 

  
_But it looks so much like…_

  
__

  
Peter groans, eyes glassy. He shuts them and Tony tangles his fingers in his hair and massages his scalp. “It’s okay, bud.” 

  
He knows what he has to do. 

  
  
Happy picks up on the 11 th ring. His disgruntled nature is thrown off when Tony tells him he needs a private jet or chopper or _something_ as soon as possible, as close as possible to his current location. He texts him his co-ordinates and waits for a text back with his ETA. 

  
3 hours. And he’s bringing Bruce. 

  
3 hours till medical attention. Around 6 hours till they’re back at the compound. He looks at Peter desperately. He’s tingling all over with adrenaline and fear. He could literally see the kid going downhill. 

  
The nearest hospital’s much farther than 3 fucking hours. He’d made FRIDAY look into getting something directly to the hospital – a medical chopper, or something, he didn’t know. Turned out to be 5 hour round trip so he sticks with Bruce and Happy, and a jet with a full medsuite available. 

  
So they’re stranded till then. 

  
Things just always seemed to work out that way, didn’t they? 

  
He sits on the bed beside Peter and holds his hand. Peter squeezes it in what Tony can’t decide is a coping mechanism for the pain, or meant to calm him down until he numbly realises it’s probably both. 

  
“Peter? I need you to hold on, okay? I’m getting you help. I think… well, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m really sorry. But you’re gonna be okay.” 

  
“It’s okay.” Peter gasps. He’s speaking slowly, from the pain in his jaw, and Tony can’t help but let the scary diagnosis word hurl itself against the padded walls of his Crazy House mind over and over. 

  
It’s quiet. 

  
They both have their self-prescribed tasks: Tony rubs his thumb over Peter’s knuckles and watches his phone like a hawk. Peter tries to suck it up and swallows back groans and whimpers like there’s no tomorrow. He doesn’t sleep. 

  
Well. 

  
It _is_ quiet, till Peter speaks. 

  
He speaks calmly. Matter-of-factly. 

  
“My stomach hurts.” 

  
Tony straightens, all unsure and nervous. “Okay. Alright. Can I—can I take a look?” 

  
He raises his pyjama top and rubs his hands together till they’re warm. Peter still sucks in a breath when they make contact. 

  
He gently – god, he could not be more gentle if he tried, and it’s still hurting him, _he’s_ still hurting him – palpates his stomach, and both of them gasp at the same time. 

  
It’s hard as rock. 

  
He looks at Peter, fear and definite realisation dawning on him. His heart sinks, thudding in fear for the kid. 

  
“What is it?” Peter rasps. Now his hand’s free from Tony’s hold, it joins his other limbs in sliding sluggishly against the comforter in pain and discomfort as he rides out another wave of flashing cramps. “What’s wrong?” 

  
Tony shakes his head and lowers his shirt. He takes back Peter’s hand. “Nothing. You’re okay. It’s alright.” He says fruitlessly. He feels so stupid. He doesn’t know what to do! 

  
“Mr Stark?” 

  
Tony turns and palms Peter’s face, hoping Peter’s going to ask him to do something for him, to give him _something_ to do to help. “Kid?” 

  
“I think I’m gonna throw up.” 

  
Peter’s sitting up and heaving and crying before Tony can grab the trash can, and suddenly he has a sobbing kid covered in vomit and their only bed faring not much better. 

  
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

  
He’s _really_ crying now. He’s holding his stomach and bent over it as much as his neck will allow. 

  
Tony shakes his head. “Not your fault, Underoos. Not at all _._ Don’t you worry about it. My job.” He reassures, as warmly as he can. “You got more?” 

  
Peter says no. He laughs once. Tony isn’t sure why he laughs, but it’s completely devoid of humour anyway and then rapidly followed by a breathy groan when his jaw disagrees with the action. 

  
“Maybe talking isn’t a good idea right now, huh, buddy?” Tony suggests, not unkindly. “I would tell you to nod, but uh…” 

  
Peter settles for the thumbs up/down approach. 

  
Tony helps him shift so his back’s against the headboard, wedging a pillow between his neck and shoulders so he feels as little pain as possible. 

  
He strips the comforter from beneath him – it hasn’t soaked through, thankfully - and throws it into the corner. He replaces it with his blanket from the couch. 

  
Then he finds the washcloth and fills up a bowl of warm water. He cleans up Peter’s face, wiping at the sick and tears and sweat with no sarcastic comment, only soft reassurances. 

  
Peter’s expression is a mixture of mortified and miserable. He’s still shaking, and once Tony’s eased off his shirt – something that makes Peter cry out despite his best efforts not to – he replaces it with one of his own sleep shirts and Peter’s hoodie. 

  
The pants are a different matter. Peter’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing deeply like Tony’s told him to. He can’t leave the kid in them, but he doesn’t want to undress him when changing his shirt was the _Worst Moment of his Life So Far_ , according to the kid’s expression. 

  
He’s giving him a breather from the movement when he notices Peter’s jaw is locked again, and it’s stuck in this sinister sort-of grin that Tony can hardly look at. He does the massaging like he did before until Peter’s mouth is shut. As it closes, he groans loudly and it dissolves into a grimaced set of sobs. 

  
His eyes are squeezed shut and he knows the kid wants nothing more than to arch his back and neck like he does when he’s hurting, but he can’t. It damn near breaks Tony’s heart. 

  
He waits for him to open his eyes again, but he doesn’t. “Um. Pete?” Peter opens his eyes slowly. “Hi. Only me. Uh… hate to say this, but we’re gonna have to change your pants, kiddo.” He groans. “—I _know_ , I know, Pete. I’m sorry. But I can’t let you sit in it. Your aunt would kill me.” 

  
Peter uses the hand that isn’t clutching his stomach to give a shaky and reluctant thumbs-up. 

  
He finds a fresh pair of underwear and a pair of sweats in Peter’s bag and brings them over. Peter swallows forcefully. 

  
“Aaaalrighty. How d’you wanna do this?” 

  
Peter edges to the edge of the bed, Tony catching on quickly. He wavers, but does manage stay up of his own steam. Tony knows it’s agony for him. “Shut your eyes.” He croaks from behind his teeth. 

  
Tony rolls them, instead. He has one grounding hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Peter, it’s nothing I’ve never seen before.” 

  
“ _Shut.”_

  
__

  
“Yes sir.” He doesn’t know whether that meant _shut up_ or _shut your eyes so help me god,_ but he decides he may as well do both. He’s desperate for Peter to lay down again and though it may not seem like it with some of the pranks he pulls on the kid sometimes, he does give at least _half_ a damn about his dignity. He still has his hand on Peter’s shoulder, he figures, so it can’t go too badly wrong. 

  
Well.  
  
“M’s S’ark.”  
  
Tony opens his eyes. Peter’s in his new boxers, but the sweats are on the carpet. He’s looking decidedly _worse_ than ever, and Tony has to stoop and wrap his arms round him for fear of him fainting. 

  
Peter’s drooling. Tony idly hopes it’s from the lack of movement in his jaw and not because he’s about to toss his cookies again. 

  
“Don’ look.” He whispers. 

  
Tony shakes his head. “Not looking.” 

  
Peter whines softly into his shoulder. “It hurts.”  
  
Tony hushes him, at a complete loss of what to do or say or be. It’s hurting him, too. “What can I do, Pete?” 

  
“Stay.” 

  
His stomach pitches in affection and raw concern. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, buddy. I’ve invested too much money in you, you know that.” 

  
Peter doesn’t laugh. In fact, he doesn’t react at all. His breathing’s calmed, he’s leaning all the more heavier into Tony, and it doesn’t take a genius to knows he’s passed out. 

  
So he panics. 

  
He panics, laying him back down and checking his pulse on his neck - and then his wrist for good measure. It’s there, strong and maybe a little fast, but it’s there and it’s okay.  
  
He’s still breathing. He double checks that, too, and allows himself to relax. He’s passed out from exertion. From pain, maybe, though he doubts it. Peter’s taken a hell of a lot of pain before and been okay. This is a whole new level. 

  
Something different. 

  
Tetanus. 

  
He’s pretty sure. 

  
He graciously as possible pulls Peter’s sweats on and some socks after it. It feels a little too much like dressing a dead body for his liking, but he’s checked Peter’s breathing about five times now, and he is. 

  
He texts Happy to _go faster_ and brings his computer over. He looks up _tetanus_ and frowns. 

  
He spares the sleeping teen a look. “You had to go whole-hog, didn’t you. Couldn’t get a head cold like everyone else.” 

  
_Fever, sweating, elevated blood pressure, rapid heart rate…_

  
__

  
His fingers rest on Peter’s jumpy pulse point as he reads. 

  
__

  
_Facial spasms. Difficulty swallowing. Abdominal tenseness._

  
__

  
_… can be fatal if not treated quickly._

  
__

  
“ _O_ -kay. Yep. Uh-huh. That’s enough of the scary stories.” He slams the laptop shut and sits waiting for the silence to reply to him. 

  
He checks his watch. Another hour and a half. 

  
He wipes Peter’s brow, makes sure the hoodie isn’t too thick. 

  
Paces a little, moves the trash can closer to the bed, carries on pacing. 

  
All but runs to _actually_ ask Hagrid for a thermometer. He doesn’t have one, so he just grabs some ice from the machine and puts the bucket in the bathtub just in case. 

  
He doesn’t know how he’ll know when to use it but he feels better knowing it’s there. 

  
He paces again. Then he stands by the door and holds it open, looking for headlights. Then he paces again. 

  
He stands with his hands in his pockets and stares at the kid, who’s now stirred enough to reassure him he’s not out cold anymore; though still not getting any kind of _peaceful_ sleep. Bodily sighing, his swipes his foot over the carpet. The fibres flip over and he makes an infinity symbol pattern over and over with the midsole of his shoe. He’s pleased that it took up 2 whole minutes – only 51 to go. 

  
He wonders if he should wake him and make him drink some water. 

  
He packs both their things up and puts the bags by the door. He paces just a little more because his feet are buzzing from inactivity. 

  
He decides he _should_ wake the kid. He decides against it. He decides against the deciding against it. He makes some coffee and doesn’t drink any of it. 

  
He wishes, and wishes, and wishes again he hadn’t taken the kid on this trip. 

  
He hopes to god he’ll be okay. 

  
Peter lets out a hushed, crackly, _heartbreaking_ whine from the back of his throat. Tony re-wets the washcloth and moves the trash can a little closer. He sits and cups his cheek. It feels like a placebo method of willing his temperature down, but he’ll take anything over feeling completely useless. 

  
When his phone starts to ring with 32 minutes left, he almost jumps out of his skin. He drops Peter’s hand and moves to the kitchenette to answer. “Gimme good news, Hogan.” 

  
_“Driving to you now. How’s he doing?”_

  
“Thank God. He’s asleep. How long till you’re here? Bruce there? Tell him it’s tetanus. I mean—I’m pretty sure it’s tetanus now. Though I’m open alternative diagnoses. My pride can take the hit.” 

  
_“Jesus, Tony…”_

  
“How _lon_ g?”  
  
_“Navigation thing says 12 minutes. See you in 8. Yes, Bruce is here.”_

  
“Holding you to 8. Drive safe. Drive fast.” 

  
7 minutes later, a dishevelled Bruce is jumping out of a blue Audi, dragging his medcase with him. Tony waves, and he jogs over. 

  
“Hi, Tony.” He says. Tony doesn’t know how Bruce manages to sound apologetic in everything he says, but he can and does. 

  
“Thank you so much for coming.” He ushers him in and Bruce heads straight for the bed. He gasps when he feels Peter’s forehead, and he looks at Tony, an appalled look on his face. 

  
“Please. Help him.” 

  
“Okay. Okay. Tell me what’s happened.” 

  
Tony regales the entire story to Bruce as he inflates a blood pressure cuff and waits for his temperature to take. He doesn’t look impressed when the readings come through onto a device he’s holding. 

  
“What is it? Tetanus? Or not?” 

  
“Tony, tetanus or _not_ , it’s… it’s taking advantage of his enhanced state. I’ve never seen something this serious advance so fast.” 

  
“Well, what does that mean? Is he gonna recover quicker? Is he dying?” Tony babbles. Bruce just shakes his head. 

  
“Not necessarily.” Tony doesn’t have the gall to ask which question he’s answering. “But I think you’re right. I’m gonna give him the tetanus antitoxin and set up an IV now. He needs to be back on the jet.” 

  
Tony doesn’t look away when the huge needle pierces his arm, or when the IV goes into his hand. He stands there, helpless and hapless and a complete fucking idiot who’s going to let his kid die because he couldn’t recognise tetanus if it slapped him in the face. 

  
He _feels_ like he’s been slapped in the face. 

  
“Can you carry him?” Bruce is looking at him like he’s said this question already. Tony nods, gormless. Bruce nods back. “I’ve given him a short-acting barbiturate sedation to keep him out till the jet at least. This is going to hurt his neck, so be gentle, Tony, be gentle.” 

  
Tony is gentle. He hugs the kid to him for the entire tense car ride – Happy breaking the speed limit what feels like twice over, Bruce taking readings and feeling Peter’s neck and jaw and stomach whilst holding an IV up in the air. 

  
He thought he’d have been able to breathe a sigh of relief when he got Peter onto the medbay bed, but he just… can’t. 

  
Can’t breathe. 

  
He watches wires and nurses swamp his kid from his freakout corner. They take his blood to look for anything else – though Bruce is almost adamant it’s tetanus by now, and he’s injecting Peter with needle after needle of antibiotics. They get to work on his jaw and neck, doing stuff that Tony has no idea how to explain. 

  
They cut through his hoodie and place cooling gel packs on him. Tony shifts on his feet, because Peter really liked that old hoodie, and he knows his guilt will force him to trawl _eBay_ for another lookalike till he finds another one for the poor kid. 

  
It won’t be the same. The lettering won’t be faded and the drawstring won’t be missing and it won’t smell like the rest of May’s laundry— 

  
May. 

  
“Someone’s got to call the kid’s aunt.” He murmurs to nobody in particular. He slips out of the room. 

  
She doesn’t answer. Again, he’s surprised to not be relieved at all. The _leave a message_ _after the beep_ beep beeps and he stares at the wall. 

  
“May. It’s me. I’d really appreciate it if you could give me a call back as soon as you can. Thanks.” 

  
His screen lights up with her name a second later. ****

  
_“Tony?”_  
  
“May.” 

  
_“Tony, what’s happened? Are you okay? Is Peter?”_

  
__

  
“Are you sitting down?” 

  
“ _You’re scaring me. Tell me right now.”_

  
__

  
He gulps. “He’s—he’s not okay. He’s sick.”  
  
“Sick? _Oh, my god. What’s wrong with him? Can I speak to him?”_  
  
“It’s… well, we’re not 100% yet. Tests are coming back in soon. But we think… May, we think it’s tetanus.” 

  
“Tetanus? _Oh, my god. My poor baby. Tetanus? Tony, it can’t be tetanus. I got him immunised. I—I made sure he got all his boosters! He hasn’t been bit by any feral animals or—how do you even get it? What’s happening to him? Where are you? I need to see my baby.”_

  
__

  
“I believe you got him vaccinated. Bruce thinks he needs to be re-immunised after the spider mutation. And it doesn’t have to be through an animal bite. I don’t really know how else, I only Googled it for a second. Dirt? I don’t know.” 

  
__

  
_“The mud run…”_ May breathes. Tony straightens. She’s right. 

  
Peter ran a charity mud run _twice_ a few days ago. Once as Peter Parker, once as Spider-Man. The kid only needed one small cut, or to have accidentally ingested some of the dirt, and it’d be straight to Tetanus Town. Especially with a healing factor like his – anything that got into a cut Peter had would be sealed in within the hour. 

  
“God, I think you’re right. FRIDAY, let Bruce know.” He sits down on the edge of a plush seat. “And he’s asleep right now. So I don’t think he’s in any pain, at least.”  
  
_“He’s been in a lot of pain?”_ May asks quietly. 

  
Tony steadies his hand by shoving it between his knees. “Yeah. I didn’t realise soon enough what was going on. It’s my fault. His neck was hurting, and his jaw seized up at one point. He threw up on himself, and I… he had a dizzy spell, for god’s sake, and I didn’t _realise_.” He only just holds back from saying _and now it might be too late._

  
May is silent. _“Where are you now?”_  
  


  
“On a jet back to the compound. I can send a car to pick you up when we’re an hour out.” He says. He can sense her anger at him, and he actually _wants_ to see her so he can be chewed out. 

  
_“It’s okay. I can drive myself.”_

  
“If you’re sure.” 

  
_“I’m sure.”_

  
“I’m so sorry, May.” 

  
_“Why?”_

  
“I doubt I’m going to be getting any more _in loco parentis_ opportunities anytime soon.” He can’t quite keep the self-reproach out of his deadpan tone. 

  
_“Tony. I know my nephew. I know what he’s like. I know you look after him. You’re on a private jet, are you not? I’m assuming you cleaned up_ vomit _from him, did you not? Tony, this wasn’t your fault. Trust me. I’m not angry. I’m just scared. I’m… really in the dark here.”_

  
__

  
“I’ll let you know when Bruce knows more. That’s a promise.” 

  
_“Okay. If he wakes up, tell him I love him and I’ll be waiting for him when you land, okay?”_

  
Tony’s heart twists. “Okay.” 

  
He hasn’t even hung up before Happy comes in, foregoing knocking. “He’s coming round.” 

* * *

  
Peter comes round all at once. He shouts out in agony, and Bruce leaps to dole out the analgesia. Tony cups his cheek instantly, blocking his eyes from roaming around the darkened room. “Hey. Look at me, kiddo. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re alright. Bruce is gonna help you.” 

  
Peter’s lip is trembling. A tear’s path gets cut off by Tony’s hand, and he uses his middle finger to wipe them away. 

  
“I’ll stay here, okay? Where you can see me.” 

  
Bruce nods at him. 

  
“Now, listen, Pete. We don’t know how yet, but you’ve contracted tetanus. I’m sure you’ve heard of it in biology class. It’s not fun, and I’m really so sorry it’s happened like this. But I _promise_ you we’re gonna get you better.” 

  
Bruce stands behind Peter’s head, shaking a vial of something. He pauses when Tony doesn’t continue and meets his eyes. _Tell him what I told you._

  
Tony looks down sadly. Peter’s eyes are wide and bright from the tears and pain, watching him steadily. 

  
“I do promise you we’ll fix this. But I also… I can’t lie to you. It’s not gonna be easy, Pete. You got the facial spasms, right? And your stomach hurt?” He placed a gentle hand on Peter’s stomach and rubbed as gently as possible. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut. “Well, now your jaw’s locked into place. And it’ll keep advancing till you’re having these sort-of… god, Peter I’m so sorry. You’re gonna have these... Bruce?” 

  
“Hi, Peter.” Bruce moves into the frame of Peter’s eyeline. “What Tony’s trying to say is that your muscles are going to go into spasm all over your body. It’ll be like having a seizure. I’m giving you as much pain relief as I can. It’s… really not fun. Sorry, kid.” 

  
Tony takes his hand. “Peter, how bad is the pain out of ten? Squeeze.” 

  
Peter squeezes ten times. 

  
Tony’s heart breaks into another million pieces with each weak clasp. 

  
Bruce stares at him, waiting for a number. 

  
“Ten.” 

  
“Aw, I’m sorry Peter.” 

  
It’s somehow horrible to not hear Peter say, “It’s okay!” or “I’m fine!” or “Don’t worry about it!” 

  
If he’s honest, it’s horrible not to hear anything at all. The balance is all off. He’s never craved one of Peter’s nerdy, trip-over-your-words rants more than right now. 

  
Bruce ups the morphine dosage a little higher and goes about prepping the most effective diazepam formula for Peter’s oncoming seizures. Tony carries on trying to calm him. 

  
“Oh. And I talked to your aunt.” Peter’s eyes fly open at that – Tony can see in them that if he could have, he’d have asked about May. “She’ll be there when we land. She told me to say ‘I love you’. Not me. Her. I don’t love you. You know I’ve always found you to be a chronic menace.” Tony huffs a tired laugh and runs his hand through Peter’s hair, leaving it there as a comforting gesture. Peter eyelids slide shut again. 

  
The next three hours go about as smoothly as Tony had expected. 

  
Peter graduates from a nasal cannula to a loud, invasive oxygen mask that he very clearly doesn’t like. The second it’s on, his hands are balling up and he’s crying. One of them eventually fumbles for Tony’s. 

  
He ends up knowing every line and hair on them intimately, as it stays firmly grasped in his for the rest of the flight. If he loosens his grip, Peter’s fingers flounder and the guilt swallows him whole. 

  
The diazepam works well to slow down the body tremors for a while, but they really set off just as they’re banking to land. 

  
It’s horrific. 

  
Peter’s eyes are open, darting around and terrified. His entire body seizes at once, his torso, arms and legs aggressively jerking inwards every second or so. It looks like some kind of demonic possession in a horror movie, and Tony wants nothing more than to look away. To just let it pass. He’s _never_ wanted something to end so much in his entire life. And he’s been captured and tortured by terrorists. 

  
But he’s seen awful things before, and he likes to think he can handle anything like a mature adult. He’s a superhero, for god’s sake. He can do this. 

  
Especially for Peter. 

  
Peter’s strong. He’s stronger than Tony could ever be. 

  
But… he’s still a kid. And he’s terrified, and he’s in agony. 

  
So he whispers to the kid, whether he can hear him or not, strokes his cheek, hums to him, cards his hand through his sweaty hair. 

  
Bruce squeezes his shoulder as he rushes past. “That’s good, Tony. Keep doing that, okay?” 

  
He cannot imagine the pain Peter’s in. He asks for him to be sedated, but Bruce sadly explains that with Peter’s enhanced state, they need him awake. They don’t know how fast this thing is gonna progress, and they need to monitor his alertness. 

  
“We’re landing now, buddy. Not too long. Get you down to the compound and get you fixed right up. Be back to doing backflips off the Empire State and scaring the hell out of me in no time.” 

  
Peter squeezes his hand hard in between jolts. “I know, Pete. I know.” 

* * *

  
May goes almost… _green_ when she sees Peter. They’re pushing him on the stretcher into the med bay, which she’s sat outside of, ripping up an old receipt into little pieces that fall into her purse. 

  
Peter’s whole body is jolting again and again and again like he’s being electrocuted and there are wires going everywhere, and the big scary oxygen mask dwarfs his face. He’s making a broken keening sound in the back of his throat, which heightens when Tony reluctantly lets go of his hand to give the team room to work around him. They disappear through the medbay doors, one of them requesting they give them some time to stabilise him. 

  
May is frozen, standing there with her purse on the ground. Pieces of receipt are scattered everywhere. 

  
Her head turns and she stares at him with big eyes. 

  
She looks worn ragged with worry. 

  
Tony guesses he doesn’t look much different. 

  
“He just started going downhill…” he supplies uselessly. 

  
“What’s going to happen to him?” 

  
Tony just looks back at her. May is the kind of woman whose entire composure begs you not to fuck with her. Or lie to her. 

  
“I don’t know. Hopefully get better.” He feels the last word come out as an empty laugh, and he drops down into one of the chairs, head in hands. His neck twinges, and he automatically imagines how Peter’s must feel. “Sorry, May. Just gimme a sec.” 

  
He feels the seat next to him dip down. “If anyone can get through this, it’s him.” 

  
“He shouldn’t _have_ to.” 

  
“But he is. And there’s nothing we can do to reverse that.” May says sternly. Then her voice softens. “It’s not your fault, Tony. And you know if he could, he’d tell you that. He’d hate to think you were upset over him. You know what he’s like, right?” 

  
Tony tilts his head to look up at her. “It’s difficult _not_ to feel accountable. That’s just who I am.” He shrugs and claps his hands together. 

  
May’s expression is empathetic and warm. It’s never been more clear to him where Peter gets it from. 

  
“You look like you could use a shower and one hell of a coffee IV. Go. Your FRIDAY voice thing can tell you if we’re allowed in to see him, right?” 

  
Tony nods. Although it was a suggestion, he can’t help but feel that May has ordered it. “Yeah. Alright.” 

  
He stands to leave, but so does May. She puts a hand on his shoulder. He turns, surprised. 

  
She kisses his cheek. “Thank you. For looking after him. He’d be lost without you.” 

  
Tony’s eyes fill a little – his eyes flit up and down her face and he swallows. She nods at him, squeezes his shoulder and heads towards the coffee machine. He watches her go and marvels at how amazing women are. 

  
He holds that thought the whole time he showers, as he shaves and as he gets dressed. 

  
The sentiment grows and blooms in his chest, warm, as Pepper comes in and straightens the wrinkles from his t-shirt. She evaluates his face, hands either side of it, and presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Are you okay?” 

  
“I hate that question with a fiery burning passion.” He kisses her again and they wrap around each other. 

  
Pepper gives him a look and goes to sit with May when they’re leaving his room to find Steve, Nat, Clint and Wanda waiting in the living area for news. They all look expectantly up as he enters, and Tony tenses up till he reads the sympathy in their stances. 

  
“Sam’s sent me 4 texts about him.” Steve huffs a laugh. Tony smiles.  
  
“He’ll be ecstatic to hear that.” Tony knows Peter thinks Sam Wilson is about the coolest guy on the planet. He’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual, especially ever since Sam found out that Peter had chosen to write an essay on him, specifically on his work as a PTSD counsellor. 

  
“So he’s okay?” Wanda asks. 

  
Tony sighs. Their faces fall. “No. He’s not good right now. Bruce says it _is_ tetanus, and he’s given him the antitoxin, and the antibiotics, _and_ the anticonvulsants… he’s had about every anti under the sun at this point, but…” 

  
“His enhanced healing isn’t working?” Nat asks. 

  
Tony shakes his head, holding up his hand to lazily point at her in agreement. “I’ve never seen the kid get so much as a runny nose before, let alone _tetanus._ ” 

  
“Jeez. Tetanus. It’s rough.” Clint mutters, looking angry. Clint’s the kinda guy to issue a death threat against tetanus itself. Tony wouldn’t be surprised if he succeeded, either. 

  
“Is there anything we can do?” Steve asks tentatively. 

  
“Hell if I know what _I_ can do, Rogers.” Tony murmurs. “Just… _when_ he gets better,” they all nod enthusiastically at his wishful wording, “come visit him? Kid loves hanging out with you losers, for some reason.” He smiles at them, knowing that exhaustion and anxiety are blatant on his face. 

  
They all smile softly and nod, agreeing unequivocally. Tony jerks his head back at them. “Thanks, folks. Does, uh, anyone else want coffee? I’ll—” 

  
“Boss, Dr Banner’s about to speak to May Parker.” 

  
“Scratch that. Make your own coffee, I guess, you lazy schmucks.” 

  
Tony Stark doesn’t run anywhere unless there’s a fire behind him or a single-malt scotch ahead of him, but he can’t really in good faith deny that he didn’t jog down to medical. 

  
Bruce is waiting for him, May no longer there. 

  
Bruce always looks tired so he has to take a second to digest the dark bags under the man’s eyes as he approaches him. “Hi, Tony.” 

  
Tony puts his hand on his shoulder. “D’you wanna sit?” 

  
Bruce hesitates. He says, “Yeah. I could sit.” like Tony’s offering to take him for dinner. 

  
“Give it to me straight, doc.” 

  
He squeezes his palms together till his fingers go white waiting for the bad news. The room seems to go silent as the world-ending fear he’s been fighting off since May relegated him to the shower crashes down onto his chest. 

  
Peter’s gonna die. And his last word’s gonna be “Stay.” 

  
And it’s gonna play over in Tony’s mind forever. The way he said it, so desperate and agonised and terrified. 

  
He thinks he’s gonna throw up till Bruce goes, “He’s gonna be okay.”, and he exhales like a storm wind. 

  
“Oh, thank god. Bruce. Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t—if you hadn’t—oh, thank _god.”_

  
__

  
Bruce chuckles. “I gave him both chlorpromazine and the diazepam and it stopped the convulsions. He’s got everything he needs now. Scans are showing that his body – you know, his enhanced metabolism and the healing factor – they’re reacting well to it – I didn’t have enough antibiotics or antitoxins on the plane to combat it properly but now I do, and it’s turning itself around.” 

  
Tony’s shaking his head at him, grinning. “I could kiss you. You know what?” He takes Bruce’s head in both hands and smacks his forehead with a big kiss. “I can and did. You beautiful man. Thank you, Brucie. You’re a myth and a legend.” 

  
Bruce blushes and smiles. He was never good at being complimented. “You can see him if you like. I didn’t sedate him, but he’s asleep anyway. I can still keep an eye on his brain activity that way. He isn’t in nearly as much pain, either. That—that was a priority.” 

  
For a second, Tony considers the fact that there in fact very well may be a god. 

* * *

  
Peter doesn’t sleep for long. He’s slept more in the past couple days than he probably has in the last month, and although the pain is lessened, it still can’t be pleasant enough to let him stay out for long. 

  
Tony just sends up his thanks that he’s not seizing anymore. 

  
Bruce does some simple tests on him and seems satisfied. 

  
May is there, and she sits beside his head as he groggily turns into her thigh. She whispers to him, and he squeezes her hand to let her know he’s alright. She cries a little at first, murmuring, “Hey, baby. Hello, Petey. Does it hurt? I know you’re hurting, baby.” to him and this makes him move even closer into her. He rubs her hand clumsily. 

  
It’s a reflection of exactly what she’s been doing whilst he slept, and Tony once again can’t help but think on how much they’ve rubbed off on each other. 

  
But then she mentions that he’s in a hospital, and the realisation that he’s not at home must break through the fog of his sleepy mind, because he sort-of comes to himself. 

  
“Hey! Don’t you move that neck of yours, Peter Parker.” May warns. Unsettled, Peter tries to swallow and gags on it, and she gingerly strokes his throat to calm him down. “I’m here. Tony’s here. Okay? You’re safe and you’re getting looked after, and,” she lowers her tone and catches his cheek to get his full attention, “the more you stress out, the longer it’ll take for you to get better. You’ve been really sick, baby. I was scared.” 

  
He gasps twice, convulsively, then settles. “Don’t cry, honey. You’ll set Tony off too. You know what he’s like.” She looks up at him and winks. 

  
He doesn’t really know what Peter’s doing when he eases his right hand out of May’s hold and replaces it with his left, but he doesn’t hesitate to grab it when it’s held out behind him expectantly. “Yep, I’m here, kiddo.” 

  
Peter squeezes it for a long while. Tony does it back, two quick squeezes like his mom used to do to his knee when he needed reassurance. 

  
His skin is pale and cold. “Damn, kid! Cold heart, cold hands, huh? Hold on, Ice Queen Elsa.” Tony blows warm air onto it and he swears he sees the corner of Peter’s mouth twitch up beneath the new, smaller, _quieter_ oxygen mask. 

  
“Bruce says he thinks he’ll have his voice back by tomorrow morning.” 

  
“Your healing factor just needed a nudge in the right direction, huh?” Tony asks Peter, who had been looking up at both at them as they chatted quietly. 

  
“That’s basically what he said, yeah.” May smiles. “Well, at least now he’s been humbled to the trials and tribulations of us _normies_ without our super duper fancy healing powers.” She teases. 

  
“He couldn’t have gotten something a little less dramatic, next time, could he? I already have a heart condition.” Peter crushes his hand fiercely. Tony pats it with his other hand, laughing. “Kidding, kid. But, seriously, please don’t do that again. I know you’ll be desperate to repeat this fun experience, but I can’t take it.” May nods meaningfully at Peter, eyebrows raised. Tony sighs. “Well, I guess I’d better go and get all that stuff done that Pepper’s been hounding me about. You’re staying here?” He asks May.  
  
“Yeah. Got my four poster.” She jerks her head to the cot behind her. “5 stars, that is.” 

  
“Well there’s a room here for you when he’s better. _Real_ four poster.” 

  
“I expect nothing less, Stark.” 

  
Tony presses his knuckles to Peter’s temple and murmurs his goodbyes, then heads out. He doesn’t want to go, but May’s there, and he’s sure they can do with some privacy. 

  
Turns out that Pepper’s first and only Big Task for him is to get some shuteye. 

  
He doesn’t even try to fight her on it. 

* * *

  
Very early the next morning, FRIDAY tells him May is heading to shower, so he heads down. 

  
Bruce is intercepting a nurse who’s carrying a fresh catheter drainage bag. He takes it from her and smiles, then sees Tony and waves. He’s wearing the white coat he normally wears in the lab, with the addition of a stethoscope and the fact that it’s _clean_ for once. 

  
“Look at you, all rested and professional. Look at this!” He flicks the drum of the stethoscope. “Dashing. God, you better watch out you don’t get done for fraud. Anyone would think those PhDs were actually in medicine.” 

  
Bruce laughs at that. “Well... yeah...” 

  
“How’s he doing? He speaking yet?” 

  
Bruce shakes his head. “Not yet. He’s responding well to everything we’re giving him. Basically everything bothering him now is from the neck upwards.” 

  
“So we’re going in the right direction? Sounds like it’s basically put itself into rewind.” 

  
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it. The only thing is that his blood pressure’s kind of unstable. It’s giving him some vertigo and a bad headache, so I’m not going to reduce the analgesia yet. I get the feeling his pain tolerance is… one to be matched. His heart rate’s still high and he seems a bit—” he mimes moving a stiff neck, “reluctant to move it, you know? But I don’t really have a reason to believe that won’t right itself.” 

  
“Yeah. Cool. That’s fair.” 

  
“You can go in - and take this. I’ll be with you soon.” Tony takes the catheter bag and pushes through the doors. 

  
Peter still looks sick as a dog, but he’s on the nasal cannula now, and he seems to be in a more comfortable position. 

  
The head of the bed has been raised somewhat, so he sees Tony when he enters. He waves at him dopily, and it makes Tony grin. 

  
“Hey! Kid! The Ban-man says you’re feeling a little better. That’s great!” 

  
Peter can manage more of a smile now. It’s all lopsided, and it looks funny and heart-warming all at once. 

  
Once Tony’s sat beside him, cross-legged and beaming back, he seems satisfied enough to close his eyes.  
  
“Bruce says you’ve been getting some vertigo. Dizzy, huh?” Peter quirks another half-smile in confirmation. 

  
He suddenly remembers being back on the highway, Peter hunched over himself as he tries not to pass out. His chest tightens and he looks long and hard at the kid. 

  
Peter opens an eye and looks at him. They share a look for a while before Tony speaks again.  
  
“I’m sorry you’re sick, kiddo.” 

  
Peter’s eyes narrow. They practically _scream_ at him not to apologise. Tony snickers. He can’t wait to be berated by the kid when he finally gets his voice back. 

  
In all honesty, he can’t wait. 

  
He chuckles again when Peter doesn’t stop glaring. “Okay, alright! No more self-pitying. God, you’re mean. That’s my favourite pastime.” 

  
Peter’s eyes roll up into his eyelids as they close. “I can _taste_ the sarcasm on your tongue, kiddo. How can you do that when you can’t even speak? Kids are so weird and moody these days.” 

  
Peter quirks an eyebrow without opening his eyes. Tony sighs and ruffles his hair. “Get some more sleep, Pete.” He earns a thumbs-up for that. 

  
The room is quiet for a while. It’s not an awkward one, but comfortable – like when they’d been driving only a week ago and they’d both fallen into companionable silence. Tony relishes it. 

  
He decides he may as well relax too. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and shuts his eyes. 

  
“Gotta admit, s’a bit weird that _you_ brought in th’bag th’s gunna hold my pee. Think unnerving is th’word.” 

  
The next second, Tony’s jumping out of his skin so high he thinks he’ll be a naked skeleton for the rest of his life, and Peter’s laughing his whispery, croaking laugh that is nothing but music to his ears. 

  
“Pete!” 

  
“Mis’r _S’ark!”_ Peter mimics back. He’s sick, and he’s shaky, and his voice is weak and quiet, but he’s _smiling._ Really _smiling._ Tony is grinning like a fool back at him. 

  
He leans forward and gathers the kid in his arms for a cautious hug. “You little scoundrel!” 

  
Peter hugs him back harder than Tony’s hugging him, and he pushes his nose into his neck. “S’rry, man. C’d’nt resist.” 

  
When they lean back, Peter’s smile has changed. It’s a quiet kind of smile. “Thanks f’r lookin’ out f’r me, Mis’r S’ark. And… s’rry f’r scarin’ you.” 

  
“You’re welcome kid. Just… no repeats, okay?” 

  
Peter nods and then winces. He laughs at himself whilst Tony scowls at his pain. “Hey, you okay?” 

  
“Yeah. M’okay.” 

  
“About as okay as you can be, all things considered, I guess. How’s the headache?” 

  
“Blech.” 

  
“Yeah. I’ll move you down.” He grabs the control and lowers the head of the bed. “Bit better?” Peter sends him another thumbs up. “Great.” 

  
The same calm quiet comes back, but Tony doesn’t settle down again. He watches Peter’s vitals for a while, then the kid himself. He’s not sleeping, he knows he’s feeling a little too unwell to settle down completely. But he doesn’t feel that same sinking hopelessness in his stomach anymore. 

  
“Hey. M’s’r S’rk.” 

  
“I thought you were sleeping.” 

  
“Shh. Say, ‘yes, P’t’r?’” 

  
“Yes, P’t’r?” 

  
“ _Shh._ Properly.” 

  
“Yes, Peter?” 

  
“’ _D’n’t be a pain ‘n th’neck.’_ Remember? _Foreshad’wing.”_ He says reverently. The giddiness is evident in his voice. 

  
Tony practically rolls his eyes into his skull. “How long have you been sitting on that one?” 

  
“Since th’plane.” 

  
“You are the absolute worst, Parker.” Tony laughs. He puts a hand through Peter’s hair and smiles at him. Peter smiles back, till Tony’s face falls. “Wait a damn second. ‘Foreshadowing’? Are you saying _I’m_ to blame for this?” 

  
Peter grins and shut his eyes. 

  
“Hey! Nuh-uh, no pulling the sleep card. Are you saying I injected you with tetanus, Mr Parker?” 

  
“Sleepin’.” 

  
“Peter!” 

  
“Night, M’s’r S’rk.” 

  
“I am so leaving you in California next time.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna send me a prompt or even just chat with me, my tumblr is caraminha and im happy to do either!!!


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